After a long hiatus . . . he returns . . .

In the course of human events, certain things happen that amuse you. Then there are things that touch you and you feel all gooey and excited. As a parent, most of the time, these two feelings intersect on a daily basis. You look at your kids and think, “What a beautiful, wonderful, insane little creature this is!”

It’s true. Kids are insane. That’s part of their charm. Be they six years old or six days old, a child is insane.

Case in point: Last night we had pizza for dinner (a.k.a. “Like hell I’m going to dirty a dish, this baby won’t let me put her down.”) So, we’re all enjoying our pizza, listening to our arteries slam shut with a mighty THWUMP and we’re listening to music. I don’t know how it happened. I may be responsible, but I’ll deny it in a court of law. Matilda decides to start dancing in her chair like a maniac. Pizza is flying; garlic sauce is coming out of our noses. Pepperoni is stuck to the ceiling after being flung in a fit of hysterical laughter. Then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. And she went back to eating her pizza.

It’s not like this is the only time this ever happens. Turn on “Shake Senora” and the kid will come running from miles away just to dance for us. It looks like some sort of bizarre tribal ritual passed on from generation to generation of people with no rhythm. And it’s damn funny. Matilda knows this. She knows its funny and she milks it for all it’s worth.

Further examples, but this is my fault. We decorated the Christmas tree this weekend. Not a small feat, considering we’re all exhausted and still haven’t done any Christmas shopping. Looks like 7-11 Gift Certificates for everyone this year! Woo hoo!

Anyway, Matilda and I are gingerly adding ornaments to the tree while Gertrude stares at the blinking lights like a raver strung out on Ecstasy. At one point, I go get a soda and sit down to eat a cookie while Kait continues her jolly work. Two minutes later she sits down in protest. “I’m doing all the WORK here. I’m not doing anything until you put up some ornaments.” My daughter is Tom Joad. Great. The next thing we know she’ll by trying to set up an egalitarian society in our house and I’ll lose what little power I ever had. I swear.

So, we finally get every ornament on the tree (excluding the lead ornament my company gave me . . . I was afraid it would topple the tree). We have a zillion ornaments. Why? Who knows? Perhaps we fear that the natural beauty of a tree might shine through and that would scare us, so we cover it with glitz and glitter and Winnie the Pooh.

We’re a young family. We need our traditions. So, for some reason Matilda and I put in a Chieftains Christmas CD and start dancing around the tree like a bunch of drunken Christmas leprechauns. Again, why? Who knows? But it was exhausting. I’m sure at one time I could have pranced around the tree like the Lord of the Lame for hours. But, for some reason, after two laps I was too tired to continue. Probably all the plaque in my arteries from ignoring the concept of health these days.

Then Matilda insists that I carry her upstairs to take a bath. Why not? Gertrude’s being carried. Why not carry the other kid up two flights of stairs after performing in the Tour de Tannenbaum? So I did. Then the paramedics came and revived me. Not really. The wife just poured coffee on me and said, “YOU WANT TO KNOW ABOUT TIRED? TRY FEEDING AN INFANT EVERY TWO MINUTES WITH YOUR OWN BODY FLUIDS. I’M THIRSTY, I’M TIRED AND I’M FAT. DON’T MESS WITH ME.”

And here I thought the baby would be the one I would have to calm down. Try to dig your way out of that one fellas.

Gertrude's going through her “Colic” period. This is where she cries for hours on end for no apparent reason. The cries escalate in desperation as you frantically try to calm the child by every possible means. And none of it works. Your frustration rises. You wonder if the baby is about to die. What have you done wrong? Did you break the baby? Does an infant come with an error log? Can I try a hard reboot?

Then she stops and either stares at you contently or drifts off to sleep. She just stops. That’s it. She’s done. I know she’s thinking, “I have you just where I want you, sucker.”

Why do they call it “Colic” anyway? Where did that term come from? It sounds like a spice. “Would you like a Watercress and Colic sandwich?” I guess it sounds better than “Inexplicably Pissed Off Baby Syndrome.”

Last night Gertrude was performing one of her crying jags. She was putting all she could into it. Arms, legs, blood pressure. Meryl Streep couldn’t pull off such a brilliant performance. Wife and I were at wits’ end. “What can we do? She’s miserable! She hates us! We’re terrible parents!” So, I decide to rock and sing to her. I sing one of the few songs I can remember the full lyrics to. “California Girls.”

By the time we hit “I dig a French bikini” she was dozing. Go figure. I think she particularly enjoyed my “Ombedoobydooby girls, girls.” It was rather inspired, I must admit. Mom comes in and tries to feed her. Somewhere in the transfer Gertrude goes back into Streep mode and can’t stop crying.

At this point I lie down in a corner, curl up into a fetal position and start speaking in tongues.

Later in the evening, I have Gertrude duty again. She’s still inconsolable. Nothing can be done. So, for the hell of it, I put in the Beach Boys, select a few calming songs and . . . she goes to sleep! Nods right off. I suppose I could take it as a criticism of the music but . . . I think it made her feel comfortable for a change. What a great kid. I suppose her support of Brian Wilson’s genius is a sort of paternity test.

Tonight I’m going to try the first side of Pet Sounds. Boy, if that baby thinks “In My Room” was good . . . wait until she hears “God Only Knows!” Ha ha!

Just think, when her musical genius manifests itself and I take control over her career like any self-respecting domineering show biz dad should, I’ll be able to stop her in the middle of recording a song and announce over the booth’s intercom, “Honey, you’re flatting.”